I love coffee. Everyday I live in a steam of whispers that feel like cloned birds running circles
around my forehead, humming, so I guess they are specific kind of birds/ & I guess they’re not
on twitter but in beaks, under mouths, in. I remember drawing analogies with a Philips TV set as
a kid, that made me love cats with a foreign lisp or just stray people that wanted cats, to feel
anything, something that makes them not be all solo like, flying in vacant parking lots. I also
love mermaids with tentacles, especially if they have a crown on their head, yeah I’m probably
endorsed or –ing/ same. It’s the green beans before losing their virginity & becoming one with
sharp whistles. Yeah I’m probably bullshitting, but coffee zombie is real in every part of America
& tentacles exist just so you can hug yourself, in parking lots, throwing echoes in metal caves,
as we must do living in kettles/ living in a world of unrequited handshakes.
Irony is important for stuffing stuff
Trees have lost their dreams and my feet feel like potatoes, confined in a rubber womb. I can
smell my eyes but I can’t see them or other stuff & also, I’m very lost in very real terms. I realize
tongues are a funny meat extension, being the perfect shape of store bought popsicles, the
ones that come in a pack of dozen for $4.99+tax, is that irony?
So I’m in a forest, in a night & the snow blizzard is having it’s annual darts clearance sale on my
face, is that a good deal? I sense a yellow stoplight is like a point of no return for some who
don’t like the lemony disinfectant taste of I.C.U coma in mouths or official photographs but I
don’t need to worry about that, I’m in a forest, just worries of the many twinsy yellow lights
grunting, grinding teeth with my barely active lump crunches/ no/ they’re only feet previously.
I feel the need to write my autobiography, w/ tenace, but it’s been rejected by many mega sage
gurus, addicted to chips w/ extra vinegar. I’m probably going to die here. That was the title in
short, in print, if ever. Also I’ve never been more proud & relevantly accurate before. I wonder
if irony buys time or hot pockets or more breaths & also I’m cement.
My flaws are only big reasons
I wash my hair at least once a week & every time I do, I cut at least an inch or 2 of hair right off.
It’s like a ritual now, to see if my jawbone has started growing hearts on each side of my face.
I’m worried because my chest feels like a hush puppie that’s been greasing in a deep fryer for
too long & with no soul & therefore, no actual heart that works.
I discussed in my head all the reasons for not pushing a shopping cart & you responded by
buying 2 packs of extra firm tofu.
We’re telekinesis cum chums!
Like 2 people who haven’t fucked since 2014 or maybe we did, fucking across the border
doesn’t count because we like bubbles in foamy tube with some French syllables & we don’t get
that this side of the border.
So the point is, you’re invisible in Whole Foods & I’m a pre pubescent boy with no dick. This just
proves how shallow people are, expecting my Brooklyn hoodie to conceal uneven breasts &
grow a bear face in real face time emoji on my chest just because I’m Canadian. I’ll probably do
all of that & people will probably give zero in fucks/ it’s my head, you see/ fake hair, fake
feelings/ fake us-us/ can you please sauté the tofu all stoic in marsala sauce? Man, sodium is so
bloating like why is there even a question of why the ocean is so big on earth?
Hotels make Prozac post modern
Moon knocking on our hotel room is a normal occurrence now. Vacation away from chic kale
digestible smoothies and garbage portals made sense at the time but see, here we have 8 eyes
and coal growing on our stomachs just like before. No, I didn’t pack the razor, for her/ her. I
think spiders have been misunderstood for many centuries, that’s why they’re not judged for
making love to bush crickets. When we were rolling around in plastic bags, snorting allergen
free talcum powder as Y2K pushed everyone into a pixilated Christmas, the moon was still
there, not half-assing but carefully carving out man made pimples as a peace offering. You’d
think we’d be sober enough to accept defeat in space or defeat in gentle maybes. Moon
doesn’t care, it’s used to puberty hitting hard, it’s a cycle for ffs and only people die of old age
or at all, mostly. I’ve a lot to think about, now that my armpit hair is also in space, in a space,
like a third wheel, chilling in the complimentary fruit basket.
minimal eye contact through espresso shots, also don’t talk to me before my morning cup of coffee and weathering my hair
your face, a glass window
a metal passage, countless dust
blowing up war ships with flags
dot. dot. pale sun. multicolours.
bald skin thirsty/ thrusting for skeleton
for grub plate
for scaly sherbet
for tea bags in heat
for real finger hats.
scars ultra modern &
your face, alien in plastic
good morning. i’m volatile
i’m instant coffee.
you’re a heat heat body in boy.
& i’m forcing you to wear socks.
Nooks is a girl/person poet from Canada. She's half Persian/half Palestinian. Her words have appeared in Alien Mouth, Wu-Wei Fashion Mag and Uut Poetry. She loves a lot and too much. http://nkrannie.tumblr.com/